


Small Gods

by Aisca



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisca/pseuds/Aisca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1845, and there are no Titans left; only the mutations that bear their name, human beings who lose all rational thought to hunger that consumes from the inside out. Three walls divide an alleged utopia from the barren world outside, as well as its own terrified citizens from one another. Lieutenant Erwin Smith seeks out an infamous rebel leader and his three young wards in a conspiracy to unravel the mysteries at the center of their government. White knight takes black knight; pawn takes king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, god. Here we go.
> 
> Yes, a dystopian AU. I didn't see one, that's my excuse. I'll decide whether to continue based on feedback; for now, this is just a little fic to test my teeth. 
> 
> I have a bit of a plot planned if people want to see it, but really, this is an excuse to write the Eruri power couple being great big bags of dicks. To each other. Especially to each other. Nobody should mistake me for a writer who knows what they're doing.
> 
> On the off chance that someone would like to submit feedback from Tumblr, I'll track "fic: small gods" and "aisca." Comments are humbly appreciated; I'll reply as best I can.

Attraction, he would come to reflect, was nothing more than a private game of politics. Power, presentation, and mutually advantageous maneuvering. In the years to come, as they kissed and bit and swallowed each other whole, that first meeting would hang over his head like a black omen - a beautiful life of being left wanting.

The tunnel reeked of mold and sewage, and Erwin - for all his decorated bravado at court that morning - felt exactly like a rat in a hole.

Just like the fucking trenches with the refugees coming in droves, the men and women and children of Maria screaming and slobbering in a storm of silver gunfire; but he wasn't young, hadn't been since the last of them fell, and his hands were steady on the gun.

"Lieutenant, sir."

"Hold," he said, but the boy behind him pressed on.

"Sir, he's holed up above the vaults like a goddamned bird. We've got to move before his squad retraces their tracks."

"Cadet. Is a direct order sufficient, or shall I remind you that Utopia wants him alive?"

The boy swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in the dark, and said nothing more.  Erwin turned his attention back to the dark of the doorway at the end of the hall.

The catacombs of Sina twisted below the city proper like a great mass of stone roots, petering into short stops or widening into vast underground chambers that their fathers' fathers had used as crypts. The sagging stone arch before them opened into a room about sixty paces wide, its circular walls carved with row upon row of shallow alcoves. The dead here were quiet - not like the walking corpses of the quarantine districts; not like the dissidents the Church sealed into its holy walls - and he almost fancied he could hear the ragged breathing of the man inside, undoubtedly perched in one of the burial bowers with the doorway in his sights.

One man.

There were at least fifteen soldiers lining the narrow corridor behind Erwin, fully armed and armored. Tranqs; batons; polished black riot gear from head to foot. Unicorns on most their backs, with a few roses to scatter and wilt.

Smooth-faced strangers except for Mike Zakarius, who stood beside Erwin with an expression like spoiled milk. He had to sympathize; the stench of their collective terror couldn't have been anything too pleasant.

"You're sure," he said, quietly enough that the others wouldn't hear.

"It's _him,_ Erwin. Sure as a hole in the head."

He took in a slow breath, warm and wet through his mouth tube of filtered air.

"Masks sealed, men. At my word."

His word, predictably, was where it all went to hell.

The target was in position, moving with animal grace, before the first man had so much as set foot in the room. His black clothing blended seamlessly  with the shadows of the graves; only the hiss of steel cable cued Erwin to the fact that he was in motion, leaping from recess to recess as a crush of soldiers filled the narrow doorway.

And then he was flying. 

Erwin knew that midair spin, the surgical precision of body and blade blown up to full color from the grainy footage back in HQ. Even the cams omnipresent throughout Sina couldn't catch him. Sixteen seconds of footage; a bare blur at the corner of an electronic eye, soundless feet on steel tile. That particular security facility was no longer standing.

Sixteen seconds.

Erwin counted.

The target plummeted directly into the midst of his little clot of riot troops, and they scattered like startled spiders. Tranqs were useless at such close quarters; they'd just as soon put holes in one another. He almost would have preferred that to the panicked chaos that followed as his men skittered from the range of those whirling blades; one wasn't quite fast enough, and he crumpled with a sharp spurt of blood.

Mike stood poised, handgun at the ready. Erwin knew he wouldn't fire.

Eleven seconds. The blades flickered, capered, darted. Twin cutters, nigh-disposable, with razor edges ideal for slicing through leather padding. Favored by the insurgents for their segmented blades, which could be snapped and resharpened at a split second's notice. He added them to his mental catalogue as he circled the knot of black-clad bodies, searching for an imaginary opening.

It was impossible to tell where the target was looking, his gas mask concealing any cues as to his next strike. As Erwin stared, he performed an abrupt and acrobatic leap, accompanied by a hiss of propelled steam from the gear strapped to his back.

Compressed gas. Straight out of a bloody history book, like one of the giant-killers of old.

The fluid creature in the air dived with the ease of a swooping hawk, and another man folded to the ground.

Four seconds, thought Erwin, watching his men buzz and drop like flies. Three. Two. One.

"Teasers, _pull back,_ block the exit. Watchers, drop your knockout agents and get the hell  - "

He was turning toward the door when he heard the telltale snap of cables. The first blow snapped his weapon from nerveless fingers. Then there was a sweep to the back of his knees hard enough to fold his legs in two, and the rest of the order left him in a wheeze as an arm wrapped around his throat and the barrel of a pistol materialized below his chin.

The voice behind his ear was even, cold, and accustomed to being obeyed.

"Guns up and let me out of this fucking room. I hear this brain is a national treasure, be a shame if I had to blow it out from between his eyes."

Yes, _mutually advantageous_ was the goal.

 

* * *

 

"Saw you skulking in the back while your jokers bled all over my boots. What's the matter, big man, left your balls in a brothel last night?"

He had a deep voice for a man so small. And he _was_ small, nearly a full foot below his own height; yet he shoved Erwin along as though he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes, the gun never straying from its place at his neck.

"Not at all. I prefer your close and particular attention."

His forehead struck the stone hard enough to break skin as the other man shoved him to the wall, grinding an elbow into the small of his back. He clenched his teeth, tasting grit and groundwater, but made no move to pull away.

"You son of a bitch." The way he said it was almost pleasant. "Do you have the faintest fucking idea of who you're talking to?"

"Perhaps I do." Erwin breathed hard through his nose. "Perhaps, after all, it was not an _accident_ that I approached the most wanted man within the walls with a party of recruits too green to know the broad side of a blade from their own backsides. Perhaps it was not a _mistake_ to announce my orders within your hearing, or to corner you in the only area of Sina that can't be swept with cams. Perhaps the reason you've got me alone, far from prying ears or outside intervention, is not because I was utterly moonstruck by the rare honor of your company, _Levi._ "

The grip on the back of his head loosened for a fraction of a second. It was all he needed.

His fingers closed around the hand holding the gun and he  _twisted,_ shoving himself back from the wall, his greater weight and bulk throwing the shorter man off balance as his free palm came up to slam into the back of the wrist. Levi staggered but didn't fall, surprisingly heavy and solid on his feet for someone who could float on the air at a moment's notice. The pistol came loose in Erwin's taut fingers and he broke free, putting three wide strides between him and his captor.

Levi hissed, and he knew he had a split second to act before half a foot of steel spilled his guts like pudding.

He clicked the safety on the handgun and tossed it into the dark behind him, listening as his only means of defense clattered across the stone and slid to a halt a few yards away. That Levi had even managed to secure a personal firearm spoke measures of his abilities; possession of weapons by anyone outside government forces was an executing offense. 

By the time he turned back, Levi had closed the gap between them, his swords drawn and scant inches away from Erwin's empty hands.

" _Recruits_."

"New graduates," he replied. "Not one of them older than fifteen."

Levi stood shock-still, his weapons hovering at his sides.

"I've come with a proposal," said Erwin, deciding to take advantage of the silence, as well as his as-of-yet intact windpipe.

"Have you? How sudden. Your kind usually likes to _court._ " Levi's voice snapped and crackled, quick to flay as the bite of a whip. "Not gonna buy me out in diamonds, Lieutenant? Take my people to dinner and fuck me over a table?"

"I'm not here to represent the brass."

"Don't tell me you're with the MP."

"I'm here to represent myself."

"You're doing a spectacularly terrible job."

"And yet you seem to have lowered your blades."

"That remains to be seen," said Levi. "You can get to the point _now_ , or you can get to it after I've cut out your fucking kneecaps and carved them into ashtrays."

Erwin tried his level best not to step away. That impatience would cost them both if this wound up working.

"Commander Pixis is dying."

He couldn't see the expression that flitted across Levi's face behind the gas mask, but the smaller man didn't shift from his stance of predatory tenseness. He waited, then continued.

"He's still in the field, of course; still hunting Aberrants; still riding out his good name on the tailwinds of his reclamations for Utopia. But they say he's ill. Seizures, mood swings, disordered thinking, obsessive behavior. A recent dissociative episode, if I'm to believe the reports from Trost."

"Don't try to be cute," said Levi sharply. "There hasn't been a Titan mutation in Sina for more than sixty years."

"It's no coincidence that the Commander has spent most of the past year campaigning outside the Interior. The reports may be rumor. They may be sabotage. Utopia couldn't care less. They won't risk giving him a chance to reach the chronic stages of the disorder."

"Rewarding its agents for due devotion, I see."

"But he wasn't devoted. Not entirely." Erwin's mouth was dry. "Don't imagine that Utopia is unaware of how your little rebellion has been getting by this past year."

He was sure, had Levi's face been unmasked, that the force of his glare would have burned twin holes in his skull. When he spoke, his voice was a feline hiss.

"Not so _little_ , clearly, if they sent a handsome thing like _you_ down to lick my boot soles."

"I told you," he said, "I'm here on my own behalf."

"I suppose I should be flattered. Keep your competence in your belt buckles, Lieutenant?"

"Keep yours in that clever mouth? I regret to say it, but that's not the mutually beneficial agreement I came to discuss."

"Of course. Your _proposal._ " Levi hesitated a moment, then half-sheathed his blades in two archaic-looking canisters at his hips, his hands featherlight on the grips. He leaned back on his heels with casual poise, but Erwin wasn't so foolish to believe he was out of lunging distance. "Don't imagine, for your part, that I'm willing to be wooed."

 _Without the right price._ That part went unspoken, surely, or his throat would be nailed to the wall by the end of his next sentence.

"I'm not with the military police," he breathed. "Not exactly. My branch is Survey Corps; we're sent to clean up the quarantines."

"Ah, yes. The reluctant heroes."

The smirk was audible in Levi's voice. Erwin's hand itched with a sudden urge to cup the curl of that contemptuous mouth, but he rather preferred his fingers intact.

"I intend to take Pixis' place when he drops," he said calmly. "To do that, I need to be in Sina with my cards close to my chest, not knee-deep in infected corpses a two-day ride into Rose. You and I both know what will happen if you give the Church and the MP a chance to get their claws into the selection process. Your movement is in a precarious position as is. Another witch-hunting conservative with the ear of the brass, and you can kiss all your progress goodbye."

"Lieutenant, I'm a butcher in a republic of pigs. I don't roll with swine; I cull the fold." The invisible smile darkened. "If you want to compare cock lengths with your military blueblood friends, that's your call. Capital politics aren't my area of expertise."

"How fortunate, then, that they happen to be mine." He smiled back, undaunted. "I don't need a miracle, just a job a little closer to home. Something to keep me and my men in Sina. Something more pressing to Utopia than the proletariat dying of disease in Rose."

"Utopia wouldn't give two shits if Rose burned alive in its sleep."

It was true, of course. Not that Erwin needed to be told. Citizens of the interior had no use for refugees - not then, when the invisible infestation had devastated the ghettos of Maria; not now, with Rose gnawing itself raw all along its rotten seams. They saw no need for the Corps at all, no matter how Erwin paced and pleaded in court. Most survivors of the sickness died of starvation soon enough, cut off from the supply chains that stretched out from the center of the Walls.

"Your people move through the quarantine districts," he said softly. "So do mine. I can give you intel; information on the movements of the MP. I can tell you where and how to hit the Interior hardest."

Levi looked at him for a long moment, still possessed of that lethal stillness. He watched carefully for any response. Even disguised, there was something distinctive in the way the other moved, all liquid muscle and clockwork control, that he was certain he could pick out in a daytime crowd.

He kept his breathing even; his fists loose at his sides; his face set in a flawless veneer of composure until Levi spoke again.

"Treason, sabotage, and conspiracy for the destruction of government property. Now, that _is_ my area of expertise."

"No greater expert, as far as I know."

It was simply a statement. His pulse beat in his ears like the low toll of a funeral drum, but he knew he was calm. Completely, manifestly calm, in the way that men who were about to die could sometimes be. It was terribly impolite for a hostage situation, and Levi - _thank God_ \- seemed intrigued.

"You want me to start a fire, so you can piss it out and look like you control the rain."

Perhaps he had imagined it, but Erwin could've sworn there was a hint of amusement in the smooth dark voice.

"What I want," he said, "is to light the fuse."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black moves second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which you know it's an AU because Eren is competent. 
> 
> Again, comments help me continue the fic! Still tracking the tags "aisca" and "fic: small gods" on the off chance someone on Tumblr drops by.

The tunnel took Levi just past the south perimeter of Wall Sina, straight into Titan territory.

Even through the clouded taste of the filtered air from his tanks - even through the thick layers beneath the straps of his harness - the stench of quarantine clung to the roof of his mouth and stung his eyes to tears. This close to Wall Sina, Utopia could afford to give no quarter. Eight months after the outbreak, the smoke was still rising.

Levi haunted this place like one of its glass-eyed ghosts, and he had systematically memorized the landmarks of its downfall. Here, a crater in the baked asphalt of the street; there, the shell of an office complex burnt black from the bones up. MP had pumped its poisons into every well; raised its outposts by every wall; sent convoy after convey to prowl after curfew like snaking beasts of prey. But then, bullets alone couldn't kill a Titan. That was why the citizens of the Interior lived like pigs in a wire pen. That was why Utopia sent its refugees back across the border with bombs strapped to their backs.

Patrols wouldn't start until dusk, when the infected became sluggish with lack of sunlight, and the streets were quiet this close to the wall. But he still couldn't afford to linger.

"Levi to squad. Report."

There was a brief crackle in his earpiece; then a voice filtered through the intercom, tinny but clear.

"Erd to Levi, we're all accounted for. Petra and Auruo are at central square, Gunter's with me by the train station.  What's your status?"

"East exit off Hermiha, two miles in. Don't bother regrouping, rendezvous at temp base in fifteen minutes." Levi narrowed his eyes into the sun, blinking until his eyes adjusted from the oily dark of the tunnels. "You heard all of that?"

"Heard it, alright. Hell if I _believe_ it."

"Same here, chief. With all due respect." A second crackle as Auruo cut in. "I would've opened that smug son of a bitch up from cock to collarbone. "

"Shut up, Auruo, that's not your call." Petra burst into his left ear, right on cue. "Who knows who he knows, if he's really in a position to become Commander. The last thing we need is the brass howling up a storm because we left some blueblood's bastard floating in the sewer." 

Auruo made a sound that crossed a scoff and a snort. 

"Did I hit my head somewhere between here and Stohess? Or are you _actually_ arguing for a deal with the military brass?"

"You hit your head when you were born," snapped Petra. "They swapped your brain with your balls and handed you back to your mother before she noticed."

Levi wasn't listening.

He slowed to a stop in the center of what had once been a busy intersection. The magnificent skeletons of skyscrapers extended steel spires to the sky, window frames gaping like rows of missing teeth. Eight months ago, these streets had been a roiling sea of panic - families sheep-like with fear; shop fronts spilled glittering across the curbs; thugs stealing all they could carry and clubbing down any who got in their way. The infection had struck the ghettos first, spilling inward from the slums that clustered like sores in the shadow of the city walls. Levi's contacts in the criminal underground took to the tunnels like rabbits. The townsfolk of Rose, who knew nothing of the mazelike world beneath their streets, stormed the south gate of Wall Sina or fled with their suitcases to the rails, only to find wall upon wall of stone-faced soldiers with feet spread and guns raised.

_"Do you have a name, Lieutenant?"_

_He'd said it as an afterthought, already a dozen paces into the southbound tunnel. Even in the dim of the catacombs, there was a strangeness to the other man's smile. A good smile; a kind smile; a bare silhouette of warmth in the dark._

_"Erwin Smith. It was a pleasure to meet you."_

Survey Corps. Quarantine guard.

"Of course I don't trust him." Levi spoke to the empty street. "If he'd come to us singing friendship and independence and freedom of fucking speech, I'd have knifed him right then and there. But he's playing this off as _ambition_. Catering to our prejudices about the brass. Speaking of which, I wonder where he gets off sending somebody else's men to their deaths."

"Chief's right," said Erd after a moment. "I didn't see any Corps in that ragtag ambush. There was a wild card, though. Big man with the nose. Looked like he had some years on him, but he wasn't wearing a branch." 

"He didn't fight me. I'll wager he's in on it." Levi frowned, a barely perceptible quirk of the mouth that anyone present would have missed. "I've got to give him credit, the bastard's got us itching. He knows we can't afford not to use him."

"He knows a hell of a lot more than that, if he was able to get you up close and personal."

"Please, Erd. We didn't even hold hands."

His grapple sunk deep into crumbling concrete, and he braced himself as the cable snapped taut. There was a split second of weightlessness - of heady, gut-lurching adrenaline  - and then the ground spun away, wires launching him toward the rooftops; toward freedom; toward a sheer summer sky the color of clouds in clean water.

Levi never thought faster than when he was flying. The first hit of fresh air, hundreds of feet above the polluted ground below, spiraled into his stomach and filled him with ecstasy that dripped down his spine and filled him to the tips of his toes. He fired his grapples again and again; reveled in the rhythm of movement, in the kiss of a cool breeze on his cheek. Swing, brace, fire. Swing, brace, fire.

"That was a good move. He didn't plan it overnight. Check the traps tomorrow, he might have sent scouts to map the tunnels.  But that'd be too easy. He didn't just know our routes, he knew where we were and when we'd be there."

He angled his body into the momentum of the wires, reveling in the way they carved his body into the wind. The sky smoked in his veins like crystal, crisp and vibrant, untouched by the gray smog that rose from the streets. It shimmered overhead like a great dome of bright blue glass. If it missed the city that had once filled its sights - beating with warm blood and writhing with life - it gave no sign.

"Erd."

"Captain?"

"I want you to start pruning our ranks. Everyone who knew about today's excursion gets a different hint about my whereabouts for the next two weeks. We'll see which one the MP acts on."

"Understood."

"Gunter, get me the reports on Trost. See if this story about Pixis has any weight to it. Petra, Auruo, make a run of our remaining routes. While you're at it, hunt down a few of the catacomb gangs and do some digging on Erwin Smith. Family, education, military career.  Where the Corps have been stationed and what they've been up to. If he's going to insist that I play his game, I'm not going to bet blind."

"Then you are planning to play," said Gunter, his voice all but lost in the roar of the wind.

"Only as long as he keeps me entertained. He'll try and fuck me soon enough, I'll just have to have my pieces in place."

"I suppose it's too much to hope you mean us."

The flat rooftop of a former apartment complex loomed before him, and Levi slowed his momentum just in time to make the landing. His knees bent with the shock of impact, cables snaking to his sides as he rose to his feet and rolled the tension from his shoulders.

"Not you. He knows you. If he knew where I was today, I'm going to assume he knows who I was with." Levi paused a moment, considering. "Don't worry, I plan on playing hard to get. Let's keep him busy with something that bites."

He turned away from the sun, looking out at the sprawl of the metropolis below.

"Hell, let's give him Eren."

 

* * *

 

 "How much longer until the checkpoint, kid? I can't see shit from between these buildings."

"Ten minutes. We'll be out in the open soon."

Squad Leader Shuler opened his mouth, then closed it with an audible snap. Everybody in the van was visibly agitated, and Marco couldn't help but feel his ribs constrict around his chest. Even with a squad fifteen strong and armed to the teeth - even with his sidearm, the very first he'd carried into Titan territory, hanging heavy at his belt - the invisible presence of the infected filled the air and the shadows and the small dark space at the back of his throat, packing it tight as though with damp cotton.

"It's been three hours," said Jean in a low hiss. "I swear to God, Marco, he's just leading us in circles."

"The Survey Corps sent him. They've had a perimeter around Hermiha for months." Marco hesitated. "I'm sure he knows this area better than we do."

"Then maybe he oughta stop _sightseeing_ and get us to the goddamn - "

"Kirschtein. Bodt." Shuler's voice was hoarse and clipped. "Got something to share with the fucking class?"

Jean glared, but went quiet. The silence continued, interrupted only by the occasional shudder as the wheels of the van rolled over a crater in the asphalt.

They really shouldn't be here, thought Marco. Well, _he_ shouldn't be here. Jean ranked fifth in their graduating class. Jean could give orders and have them obeyed. Surely Jean had a better chance of succeeding in a mission of any sensitivity. Even so, the two of them were without a doubt the youngest of the MP soldiers sitting packed in the van like sardines. 

The boy from Corps, on the other hand, looked about their age. Fifteen or sixteen, surely not past twenty, with sun-tanned skin and a medium build. From his position at the back of the van, Marco could just make out his head of tousled brown hair.

"Fucking hell. We're an hour behind schedule." Shuler gritted his teeth as he glared out the windshield. "I sure hope Erwin is pulling his weight."

"The Lieutenant hand-picked his party for the decoy mission." Shuler's second, Mosby, adjusted his glasses with a nervous twitch. "He said he had every possible confidence in their success."

"Erwin's _confidences_ don't mean shit. When's the last time the Corps were worth their weight in taxes? They made a mess of Maria and now they're making another of Rose. If we'd firebombed Shiganshina right at the start, maybe we wouldn't be up to our eyeballs in blood and shit."

The boy turned. Marco only caught the motion because he'd been watching, but there was absolutely no mistaking the expression on his face. The way it had shifted from paper-thin respect to rage in the span of two sentences drove a spike of unease into Marco's already overactive senses, and his mouth opened seemingly of its accord.

"If we'd bombed Shiganshina, we'd have killed thousands of survivors alongside the infected. In addition to rendering vastly important farmland unusable, and the potential of irreparable damage to Wall Mari—"

Shuler swiveled to face him.

"Cadet Bodt. Did you hear me ask for your sage opinion?"

"No sir, but - "

"Then shut the hell up before I shove it up your ass and make you shit it out with breakfast."

"Hey," snapped Jean, "it's not like he was - "

"We're here," said the boy, and his eyes flickered briefly to Marco's face before returning to the windshield.

The outpost was a small one, little more than a fortified barracks with barred windows and an small selection of underground cells. The building had been a Garrison jail before the outbreak - cramped quarters of rough-hewn stone where criminals from the slums could be kept until MP arrived to cart them off to a courthouse. Nothing techy, but it was conveniently close to existing patrol routes, not to mention compact enough to be guarded by a single squad.

The van rolled to a gradual stop by the barbed wire fence. Shuler peered out the narrow window, frowning.

"Strange. They should be expecting us."

"We are somewhat off schedule," said Mosby timidly.

"Even more so, then. They know how important this cargo is." Shuler took a deep breath. "Get out of the van. Eyes open, keep your guns at the - "

The rest of the order trailed off into a curse as something large and dark struck the windshield. Hard.

The glass folded in like spun sugar, and somewhere in the chaos he heard Mosby scream. The impact was forceful enough to send Jean careening into his side, and he winced as his shoulder connected with the corner of a packing crate. The soldiers were flailing, cursing, scrabbling for purchase, and Shuler, snarling, leaned over Mosby's lap and yanked a lever, opening the door with a rusty groan.

"Everyone out! Get out of the fucking van!"

Marco was almost crushed in the stampede to the door, but somehow the current of bodies carried him with it and thrust him gasping into the sun.

The first Titan nearly took his throat out.

He caught the movement from the corner of his eye, dark pits in a backdrop of white, the barest semblance of human features as they flashed across his peripheral vision. Then a body, huge and reeking, enfolded his own, and teeth closed in on the curve of his neck with animalistic intent. His arm swung up on instinct and the butt of his handgun smashed into its face, bone giving way with a too-loud _crunch_. It jerked, barely enough to skew the course of its bite, and its teeth snapped shut on empty air as Marco broke away.

By the time he turned, it was lunging. It'd been a woman, maybe, it was hard to tell. The arch of its broken nose had already begun to reset, adjusting itself in a series of sharp little pops. The bug eyes rolled and focused; the tongue lolled damp and red in a wet cloud of steam.

His arms were up, bracing for the collision, but before it could reach him there came a noisy _crack_.

Jean was there, a boot planted in the small of the creature's back, struggling to keep it pinned as it writhed like a land-bound fish.

"Shoot it, Marco! Shoot the neck!"

Marco stomped hard on the twisting head, trying not to balk at the way its skull _gave_ and then reformed, pushing up into the sole of his boot. He shoved the barrel of the gun to the nape, right at the top of the spine, and squeezed. There was a spray of red, and the Titan wilted as its central nervous system flickered out.

"Alright?" asked Jean gruffly.

"We're dead." Marco stared back at the totaled van. "Sina, Maria, and Rose, we're _dead_."

There were at least twenty mutations swarming around the vehicle, mingling with MP soldiers in a morbid dance. The courtyard was full of flashing teeth. Shuler stood panting with his back to the van, firing into the mass seemingly at random. Mosby wasn't with him. Marco didn't look.

Somewhere to his right, the boy with brown hair was in motion. He was armed not with a gun, but with two long flat blades like box cutters. One lashed out, cutting a Titan's legs from beneath it in one broad stroke; the other came down in an vicious arc as it crumpled, embedding itself deep in the back of the neck.

Firearms could slow the Titans at a distance, but blades were far more effective at close quarters. The flesh of the infected bubbled closed over any wound. He'd seen it a dozen times on the captive specimens in training, but the sight still made him sick to the core.

"They've overrun the outpost. Why in screaming shitting hell didn't those morons send up a flare?" Shuler's snarling came between the staccato bursts of gunfire. "A distress call, a signal. _Something_."

"There's an entrance to the underground less than a quarter mile from here."

It was the boy from the Corps. Instead of pulling his blade free from the Titan's corpse, he snapped it at one of its segmented grooves, sheathing the hilt in a rectangular canister at his hip.

"It's an old subway tunnel that nobody uses. They need the sun, they won't follow us underground. We can lead them there and wait for them to lose interest."

"Kid," hissed Shuler, "you have no idea what's in this fucking cargo. Let me tell you, it's worth more than your mortal existence."

"We're miles from the next outpost. Your second-in-command is dead, our whole squad is _fucked_." Jean took a rapid step forward, his voice rising to a shout. "We can come back for the cargo when the coast is clear, it's not like the Titans are gonna take it." 

"I am your _superior_ , you little shit, and you'll do what I damn well - "

There was an ear-shattering _crash_ from inside the van. Marco whirled toward the noise, lifting his weapon just in time to see a snarled dark shape wriggle out over the jagged remains of the windshield. It hit the ground, convulsed for a moment, and then staggered up on uneven feet. The glass embedded in its torso popped out and scattered as skin and muscle reknit; it peered at them, jowls drooping, eyes white behind the spectacles still fixed to its face.

It was Mosby. 

Shuler's face turned the color of bleached bone. "Show me the way to this tunnel, kid."

 

* * *

 

Including Jean, Shuler, the boy, and himself, there were a total of six soldiers stumbling through the dark of the abandoned subway. Six, thought Marco hazily. Six out of sixteen. Even if they managed to wait out the Titans, they'd need to signal for reinforcements before they could return to the outpost. There was no telling how many infected were in and around the building - swarming like starving bees, swifter and stronger than any creature with warm blood had a right to be.

He had no idea what they'd left behind them in the overturned van, but it'd better be worth ten dead bodies.

The subway had been abandoned since Hermiha's evacuation eight months before. It was spacious and well-paved, but the electricity was long gone save for the occasional strip of low-energy emergency lighting. It cast the walls with a claustrophobic red glow, and Marco couldn't help but feel as though they were heading straight into the belly of some slumbering steel-plated beast.

"How deep are we going, boy? So help me Sina, you'd better know where we're heading."

Shuler, it seemed, had regained enough of his color to resume blustering. The boy didn't bother turning, simply continued walking with his jaw set and his brow furrowed.

"We'll reach the platform soon. Then we can take the service exit back to the surface and call for backup."

"Which one puts us closest?"

"Just follow me."

"How do you know the underground so well, anyway?" said Jean. The Titan gore on his boots and gloves had evaporated, leaving his face oddly pale in contrast.  "It's full of thugs and killers and headcase insurgents."

"Look, horseface, this is the subway. It's public transportation, not your dungeon fantasy."

"What did you call me, you son of a - "

"Shut up," snapped Shuler. "Stuff it down your throats _right now_ , you fucking imbeciles. I'm not here to chaperone you while you have a hair-pulling fight."

"Well, I guess we're here anyway." Sure enough, they'd reached the platform - a cavernous tunnel whose exact parameters were lost in dull red shadows - and their guide stood a scant few steps from the drop to the tracks, gesturing to a steel door in the far wall. Straining his eyes, Marco could see that it was, indeed, emblazoned with a black-on-yellow SERVICE PERSONNEL ONLY. "Come on, then. Ladies first."

Shuler stepped forward, growling.

"You crass little shits from Corps think you're all going to heaven for saving the world. Well, let me reintroduce you to reality, boy." The door flew open with one forceful yank, swinging forth on surprisingly silent hinges. Shuler stalked inside, tailed by the two older soldiers, and after a moment's hesitation, Marco followed.

"Your Lieutenant is crawling the catacombs on a _suicide_ mission to keep Levi busy while we cross Hermiha. Yet here we are. Half a mile from our drop-off point. With a third of our men alive and our cargo in Titan territory. Our very, _very_ important cargo."

There was something suddenly unsettling about Shuler's voice. This room, unlike the tunnel, was completely dark, and the words floated back like the dying breaths of a disembodied ghost. He almost jumped at the movement behind him, only to see Jean slip in through the gray rectangle of the open door. That was all of them, then. All of them except-

"You think he's going to be pleased when he hears how you fucked it all up? How his little cadet got us hours off schedule and led us straight into a Titan swarm? You'd best kiss goodbye to your scintillating future, because Erwin Smith is going to hear all about this."

There was a loud click, and the rectangle disappeared. The five of them stood in utter darkness.

"Yeah," came the answer. "I bet he will."

And then the room filled with a roar of noise, and Marco was gone in a sea of light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, apologies. I'm rubbish at updates. But here is a chapter, the first in a while.
> 
> Tracking "aisca" and "fic: small gods." Comments keep me going; I hope you're all well.

By the time the tunnel grew silent, he had ripped off the uniform shirt and shoved it to the bottom of his knapsack, the bloodstain all but invisible against its backdrop of black cloth. Second—and somewhat more reverently—came the Survey Corps cloak and jacket, folded to fit on top. He was grateful, now, for the three inches he had grown in the course of the last year, for all that they made his jaw jut and his legs knot and his already impossible temper fray to nothing at all. The cloak had been a perfect fit.

He opened the door and stepped in, drawing his blades as he went.

At least he could count on Armin's work. Small clever hands and the hum of a soldering machine - _look, Eren, here's the gunpowder; here's the gas, here's_ \- okay, so he hadn't paid attention, but the results were clear enough. A chemical cocktail rigged to a load of shrapnel and ground glass, triggered to blow by the opening and closing of the door. Not quite capable of leaving the room. Then again, nothing had to.

The first thing he saw was the asshole from the hallway, facedown and motionless where the blast had hurled him against the door. He stepped over the body and squinted into the dark. One, two, three soft-edged shapes - human islands in a sea of broken glass.

The silence throbbed like an open wound.

_Wait. Wait, back up a second, wasn't there -_

A sound to his right - the merest shuffle of motion - and he was across the room, his blood roaring in his ears, his boot landing hard on the white flash of a reaching wrist, and the man - the _soldier_ \- gave a low squeak of pain, horrible and human and helpless. Something in it rang familiar, and wait - wasn't he - it _was_ -

"Please. "

It was the one from earlier, the one who'd spoken up about Shiganshina. His face shone sheet-white above a shirtfront stained with blood. Now that he looked - really _looked -_ it was a face that might have been kind, with brown eyes and a peppering of freckles.  They made him look younger, somehow, like a child afraid of the dark.

"Please," the soldier repeated, and he was braced for it this time - for the _begging_. He had to remember they were cowards. Cowards who sold girls like Mikasa, cowards who let their people starve.

Eren raised his blades.

"Help Jean. Please - help Jean."

Blood bubbled from the soldier's bitten lips, and in that moment, he noticed something else. The badge on the breast of the soldier's jacket was barely visible in the dark, but he blinked until he could be sure.

The patch was not a unicorn, but a pair of crossed swords. The man on the ground - no, it had to be a _boy_. He wasn't a soldier, then; he was a cadet no older than Eren, either still in training or too newly graduated to claim MP colors for his own.

"Jean, is he  - " The brown eyes were dazed and rolling, glassy with pain. "Is he hurt, is he - please, you have to - _please_ \- "

"Who's Jean?" said Eren, a second before it hit him. Oh, for _fuck's_ sake, the one who'd snapped at Shuler in the van. The _douchebag._ The horse-faced shit who had tackled the titan before it could bite his freckled friend.

"Who's Jean?" he repeated, only half aware of the edge in his own voice. No answer. Looking down, he saw that the other boy was no longer moving, his eyes closed in his corpse-pale face, his chest heaving dangerously.

"Fuck," he said, and sheathed his blades. _"Fuck,"_ he groaned, and wrapped his arms around the trainee's chest, dragging him half-upright on boneless legs. No heavier, really, than the corpse that he should have been - but the blood that ran slick between his fingers was warm, and a slow pulse beat in the silence when Eren pressed two digits to his neck.

Levi was going to skin him alive. 

 

* * *

 

"With all due respect, Nile, I don't see what you want from me." Erwin folded his hands with calm precision on the desk,  resisting the urge to roll his sore shoulders.  "I completed my half of the operation. We'll say nothing of the personal and professional risk I incurred in the process. It was you who insisted on keeping all matters related to the delivery in MP hands."

The insult was subtle, but present nonetheless. He saw Nile's eyes narrow, the corners of his frown harden.

"What I want from you is an explanation, Erwin. Your expert _fucking_ opinion as to why a Titan swarm should occur in an area your Corps had quarantined for months, along a route you swore to me was clean for travel, during the passage of a convoy that I _thought I made clear_ is of more importance to the Interior than both our careers combined."

"I can hardly account for every possibility," said Erwin. "Including that of your men being utter incompetents."

Well. So much for subtlety.

"My men?" Nile exploded, leaping to his feet with a birdlike hop. His chair clattered to the ground, and Erwin pushed his face into his hand with a sigh. " _My_ men, Erwin? You've had _eight months_ since the outbreak. God knows nobody expects actual results from the Survey Corps, but you'd think your division would stop being useless for the five fucking minutes it takes to scour the streets. Build up barricades. Oh, and maybe _fight the Titans_ once in a bloody moon _,_ you know, like it says in the _obituaries._ "

Erwin swallowed the anger that surged into his mouth. Chief Nile Dawk, he reminded himself, was a reasonable man. Reasonable, that is, in the ways in the world:  in the practical logic of refusing to bite the hand that fed him. Erwin could not claim to be high on the list of men he served, but he _could_ claim to be high on the list of men he _feared_ \- and fear in Nile manifested as skittishness; a nervous coiled energy that he had grown wary of in their history of brief collaborations.

When he spoke again, his voice was low and placating.

"Nile. Listen to me."

Nile made a sound between a snarl and a groan.

"We need to take action before word gets to Sina. Blame me, if you like. Blame my men, if you must, but that won't stop Utopia from knotting a noose for your neck. You have resources at your disposal. _Use them_."

"You mean yourself, I suppose." Nile laughed through his hands. "Don't try and put moves on me, Erwin, I know how this goes. We're not boys at school any more, there are consequences to consider."

"I am _up for office,_ Nile. For the position of Commander. I have as much to lose as you do, or have you forgotten that?" He leaned forward across the desk, careful not to push too far. "I have no pretensions of being your friend, but that alone does not make me your enemy."

"Maria and Rose, what the hell do you  _want?_ "

"To help you," he said simply. "Let my men work with yours. We'll recover the cargo and all will be well."

Among Erwin's traits was a certain charisma: a thing he'd first noticed in the days of his youth, when the smiling calm he had possessed as a child began to be labelled as strength and not strangeness. His presence in board rooms—in Sina's bright court—was a necessary evil among true elite; yet here he sat on his plastic laurels while the Survey Corps ate stones for bread.  People liked him—just not what he stood for. Nile, in that way, was a refreshing anomaly: the more they worked together, the warier he got.

The expression on his face was oddly unreadable. Brows furrowed close, mouth pulled taut; but there was something else, too, coiled cold behind his eyes.

"It's not my call, Erwin."

"You're the Chief of the Military Police."

"It's not my call," said Nile, and the anger had drained from his voice. "Contact with the cargo is restricted to the MP. I didn't make that decision. I have an order from the king."

 For an instant, he sat speechless, his face rigid in shock. Quickly, carefully, he shaped his expression to one of politeness. An appropriate curiosity. Nothing more, nothing less.

"I see," he said slowly. "My most honored regards."

Nile was pacing on the other side of the desk. His eyes were black with buried fear; his mouth had sealed shut like a clotted sore. 

 

* * *

 

"That went well," muttered Mike as Erwin closed the door behind him.

"I'm beginning to believe your sense of hearing is as supernatural as your sense of smell."

"We _are_ discussing Nile. That was almost...accommodating."

"It was an invitation to go fuck myself, suitable for framing." Erwin gave a low sigh, the taste of it sour. "I'm already in danger of collapsing the walls."

He headed down the hall, ignoring the ache in his temples and the persistent stitch of pain in his back. Levi had hit him harder than he'd thought. Mike, hands in pockets, stayed beside him with ease; his long strides ate the ground in time to his own.

"He's not going to trust you."

"He can't afford not to." He pulled on his gloves. "There's something about this cargo—something about this mission. He's keeping us on a leash, Mike. Think back to the beginning. Why send me after Levi with a team of his own men?"

"He let you select them. And he let you have me."

"And the convoy," he went on, barely listening to the noise. "Why ask for a guide—a guide and nothing else? What harm could it do to have an escort of Corps? Yet they wouldn't agree to it. They gave an excuse—"

"Erwin, wait." Mike's tone had become sharp. "I meant to have told you. That guide that you sent—"

"There was _nobody_ in that convoy correctly equipped to fight Titans. They had _pistols,_ for God's sake. My cadets could have done better." They reached the foyer in record time, and Erwin stepped away to dress in his coat. The insignia of the Corps—a single black wing—came to rest at its place on his back and left breast. "They want this out of my hands. They want the Corps in the dark. The way that I see it, there are two possible explanations."

Mike was still talking, his tone tinged in frustration, but the world had tunnelled down to the lull of his own thoughts. The workings of his head were clear as clean water: logical, lucid, form out of fog.

"First, that Utopia has preempted my dissent. But if that were the case...well, by all rights, I'd be dead. The two of us sealed in that tunnel below Sina—any ham-handed recruit could have shot me in the back."

"Erwin," Mike growled, "save your breath for one instant."

"Second, that this issue does not concern me personally, but rather the nature of the cargo its—"

" _ERWIN,_ you stupid boar, let me tell you about the _guide_."

For a heartbeat, it halted him. Then came the hot wash of pain; the ache, momentarily fresh, before it dulled with long practice.

"Cadet Carraway, yes," he said a breath later. "I'll have to write the letter. They said he died with the rest."

"Not with the rest," Mike replied as he strapped up his blades. "Come with me to the car. There's something you need to see."  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And what if you're wrong?" It was said without judgment, the words weighted more by concern than contempt. "You're professing a whole lot of intimate knowledge, considering you spent all that quality bonding time trying to keep him from cutting your throat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about the relationships in this story, guys—Eruri might be a bit of a slow burn. There'll also be platonic relationships between Levi and the EMA trio, especially Eren, as he shows up most. I apologize in advance if the buildup is slow, I know I update pretty irregularly. I'm literally writing this in between classes, but I'm having fun and I hope you are too.
> 
> Tracking "aisca" and "fic: small gods." Comments greatly, humbly appreciated.

The fourth floor of the mall, just below the roof, was full of sunlight and closest to the sky. It boasted a sweep of relatively intact windows, but the splendid view of downtown Hermiha did nothing for the chill of its chipped white floors. Its grid of steel rafters housed a nation of birds. Their quick-blooded bodies fluttered softly through the eaves, and Eren, at that moment, wished desperately for wings.

Between looters, mutations, and MP raids, more of the building was outside than inside, a shifting radius of derelict junk scattered across its gas-sodden grounds. Abandoned cars sat like squatters in the parking lot, their windshields busted by policemen and thieves, their engines long gutted for resale in Sina.

A couple months back, when Armin came home—

(And home, Eren thought, was a new place each month, or maybe a memory he had all but forgotten—)

A couple months back, when Armin came home, he'd talked about maybe trying to fix one of those cars. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "we can get Levi to teach us to drive," and Eren sat up with a sharp, stifled laugh—

"Do you wanna fucking die? What makes you think he _knows?"_

"Dunno," Armin answered, "he makes it look easy. Start it up, start it rolling, and pray, pray, pray."

The truth of the matter was, they simply didn't question it. Didn't question that Levi _knew things,_ that he had himself in hand. Didn't question his mere presence as a sign of sure safety. It was a childish thing to think, but Eren couldn't help it. He hadn't been a child for a long, long time.

It didn't help to know that when Levi was looking at him this way, with that curious disappointment he had never feared from his own father.

His mouth was sand-dry as he said, "I can explain."

 

* * *

 

Carraway's hands were neatly folded.

That, and the fact that he hadn't been eaten, were the two blaring signals that something was strange.

"Did you find him like this?" asked Erwin sharply, looking down at the corpse on the sooty ground. Standing in an alley just a block from the south gate, he lifted an arm to shield his eyes from the sun.

"Just so," Mike answered. "I told the men not to move him." His nose wrinkled slightly, the only indication of his discomfort in what must have been a wave of overpowering sensation. "I'd say from the smell of him he's been dead for six hours."

Erwin himself couldn't quite catch a scent, but he confirmed nonetheless that the statement was true. Carraway's body had already stiffened, his dark hair gathered in a mat of blood. The color had drained from his olive skin like cheap dye from a sweat-stained shirt. Carefully, reverently, Erwin knelt and grasped the dead man's rigid shoulders, turning him over and onto his side.

There was more blood there, pooled and clotted, partially dried into rust-colored dust. In the center of his back, he found what he was looking for: a single clean cut across the spine.

"Stabbed in the back," said Mike with a grimace.

"Not stabbed. Sliced. This wound look familiar?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"The obvious truth." Lowering the body back to the floor, Erwin rose and began to dust his hands. Then, thinking better, he clenched his fists. "The killer took his cloak and jacket. Took his spare blades, but left the canisters. It's clearly not a coincidence, Mike."

Mike, of course, had already put it together, his brows furrowed close as he studied the wound—the shape of it foreign, strangely obscene, when carved in a man instead of a mutant.

"Levi," he said. His voice was low.

"No."

 _"No_? Who the hell else?" Mike stepped back with a heavy thud, the weight of it ominous, scattering dust.  "He must have known about the cargo. Known all along, before we ever found him. He led us on so we wouldn't get suspicious, then sent an assassin and _fucked_ us all blind. Now we've got two sharks to deal with, not one."

Standing in the sun with his cloak full of sweat, the sky scarlet-tinged, fringing on dusk, Erwin closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Since that morning, he thought, he had ordered an ambush, been taken hostage at gunpoint by an infamous rebel, been kicked in the knees, been lung-deep in dirt, had his entire division dragged through the mud by Nile fucking Dawk the dog _,_ and in all goddamn likelihood unearthed a conspiracy somewhere between the door and the coat closet. He needed a drink. He needed a gun. 

"No," he said tersely, "I don't believe so."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mike fix him with a look of utter exasperation.

"He's a renegade thug."

"Who's never been caught. Who's never even shown his face." The image rose suddenly, rich as a dream: the easy grace of Levi's steps, the cant of his hips, careful, contained, all of it capped by a featureless mask. He pushed it out, pushed it down, unsure why it had come. "Would Levi send a single man to kill our guide and hit the convoy, while he himself and his private squad played hide-and-seek in the Sina crypts? Would any assassin with a lick of sense leave the body here with folded hands? Anyone looking at the wound in his back would know he'd been killed by an insurgent blade."

"So what?" said Mike. "It's a calling card."

"No, it's not. Levi is sharp. When he fucks the police, he doesn't leave marks." The words were bubbling up unbidden—why, exactly, was he so damn certain? "A soldier here, a shipment there.  He _knows_ his people are spread out thin. He needs more leverage—a concrete advantage—before he can risk doing anything showy. That's why he agreed to accept my help."

Mike rolled his shoulders with sad nonchalance, his face suggesting a level of martyrdom far surpassing all named saints.

"You don't know that, Erwin. You can't profile everyone."

"We had an understanding, Levi and I."

"And what if you're wrong?" It was said without judgment, the words weighted more by concern than contempt. "You're professing a whole lot of intimate knowledge, considering you spent all that quality bonding time trying to keep him from cutting your throat."

It was true, he supposed. So what if it was? Doubt was a habit he couldn't afford. He couldn't let doubt take the time he had waited, watching and listening, smiling in court, counting the hours and weighing all sides. Doubt would do nothing for the boy at his feet.

"This is a mess. Levi hates messes." Erwin breathed in as he turned from the corpse. "Why else would he have let me go?"

 

* * *

 

Levi swiveled on his heels. 

"I come back," he said, "from the most disastrous supply run in my lifetime, find the base in a frenzy and you MIA, wake up half the night watch because no one knows where you went, and where should I find you but an hour into Titan territory, covered in blood from God knows where and dragging a corpse like a fucking coyote. I wish I could say I was _even surprised._ "

"Petra said he would live."

"That depends on a great deal."

"Listen," said Eren, "you can yell at me later. Right now we have to get the Special Ops mobilized, we have to get hold of the cargo before MP figures out what went wrong."

"MP?" said Levi. His voice never rose, but it caught like elastic, stretched out to snap. "You went out to fuck with the _Military Police?_ "

"Mikasa called. An hour after you left."

"I'm aware," Levi started, but Eren kept talking.

"She said she had to talk to you, you and no one else. I said I'd fill you in when you got back from your trip, but she said it couldn't wait, this could make us or break us."

Levi said nothing, so he plunged on without pause. "There's a cargo meant to come through today. It's going to be delivered to Utopia itself. She heard it from her mark, it's something precious, something big."

"What is it?"

"She doesn't know."

"She doesn't _know?"_

"Nobody does. But it's important enough that the _king's_ put out orders, and it's important enough to send some military bigwig to keep you busy while it goes through Hermiha." Eren stopped for a moment as the thought occurred to him. "Did he? Keep you busy?"

The split-second pause that followed the question was the Levi equivalent of a sharp inhale.

"We handled it," he said. "No thanks to you. Bloody hell, Eren, you didn't think to _contact_ me?"

"Of course I did! You were in the fucking catacombs! I can't call you underground, I sent someone after you."

"Who?"

"Reiner. Bertl."

"For _fuck's_ sake," said Levi, "the lovebirds? Really? You couldn't have asked an actual adult instead of your moon-eyed teenage friends?"

"I _am_ an adult," said Eren, stung, not mentioning the moment he'd almost gone himself. He'd seen red the split second he heard the word _ambush_ , fumbling for boots, for blades, for gear, Mikasa shouting down the line, _what the hell are you doing, hang up this damn phone and I'll kill you myself._ Mikasa was in Sina, three border checks away, but he somehow didn't doubt she was dead fucking serious.

"Anyway," he continued, ignoring Levi's agitation, "I went to the outpost first. I figured I just had to delay the convoy, right? Wait for you to get back so we could stage a raid. So I dealt with them, and then I went to the gate 'cause Mikasa said they were entering from—" He stopped, bit his lip, and then went on. "—From Rose. And...from Maria before that."

Levi's irritation momentarily gave way to blankness, his face wiping clear of expression like a slate. Five, six, seven years under his care, and Eren still hadn't figured out how to parse that blankness. It was worse than his anger, which was whip-quick and focused, sharp as a needle, hot as a brand—not unalike Eren's own, just more tightly leashed.

"Maria," said Levi, as if to himself. "What the fuck's in Maria? What the fuck's _left_?"

"Who knows," Eren answered, feeling vacant himself—not thinking of Shiganshina, the market, his mother. "But anyway," he said, because that blankness was not for him—that chill on Levi's face had nothing to do with him—"I went to the gate, and I got lucky. There was a guy there from Corps. A quarantine guard."

"I don't see how that comprises luck."

"He was hanging around there, just waiting by the gate, so I—took him off guard. Took his ident and his uniform, and when the convoy came through I said I was the guide."

"You left him there? By the southern gate?"

"No! Gods. I'm not _stupid,_ Levi. But he was forty pounds heavier and I was using the gear, I didn't wanna drop him from midair and—"

"You killed him?"

"Yeah," said Eren quietly.

Another tiny pause.

"We'll talk about this later." Levi sighed, the sound heavy. "When I got back to base and they said you'd gone missing, I thought you got pinned by a MP patrol. I went to the garrison. Scouted about. It's crawling with MP like flies in full heat. No news of you, just a convoy gone missing, a Titan swarm somewhere in Precinct Sixteen. Mikasa called base, started threatening to cut people, I put things together and searched the supply routes."

"Oh," Eren muttered. "How angry is she?"

"Oh, you'll find out."

"Actually, I don't care. She needs to stop acting like I'm still nine years old. And Levi—" The urgency took hold again—"if the MP already know, we have to go _now._ We have to get the cargo and bring it back here, we gotta get to it before they do or it's all been for nothing."

"This," Levi said, and his voice had grown lethal—" _this_ is why your sister treats you like a child. Did you _think_ for five minutes before you put us in danger? If we bring it back here—if we get within _pissing distance_ of that convoy, Eren, the MP will crack down and hunt us extinct. And all this for _what?_ Is it weapons? Or food? Is it going to keep us alive long enough to be worth it?"

"It's a big metal box," said Eren, throat taut. "It's got a passcode on the lock. Real techy, real new. I saw it while I was in the van, it's still there, they had to leave it."

"A _mystery_ gift. It's probably trash." The crumbs of patience that Levi had left were visibly vanishing into the stratosphere. "Something for the church, a relic, maybe. A shiny rock for the King of Sina. For all that we know it could be his virginity, miraculously restored after all these years  _fucking_ us."

Eren steeled his nerves and played his last card.

"Levi," he said. "It came from Maria."

There it was again, that terrible emptiness: the vacant emotion in Levi's eyes, his mouth a closed trap, his features frozen.

"It came from Maria, and they were trying to keep it from us." Eren, with a concentrated effort, didn't flinch. "Nothing leaves Maria. That's what you said when you took us in."

"Don't," Levi said, his voice oddly soft.

"That's what you said when I wanted to go back. My mom's probably wandering as one of those _things._ My dad by now, too. Or maybe he's alive. He could be alive behind all of those fences but it doesn't even matter because _nothing ever leaves._ No exports, no news, no refugees, there's _nothing._ You said that, Levi, you said it _yourself."_

Levi was silent for a very long time, and Eren, hands rigid and clenched at his sides, got the distinct impression that he was pulling himself together. Muscle by muscle, stitch by stitch. The same way he scrubbed and rinsed clean all his clothes—he wrung himself out, drained his pain drop by drop, and aired himself out like a skin full of calm.

"Give Mikasa a call," he said at long last. "Tell her you're safe and then go get some sleep. There's something I needed to talk to you about, but it's going to have to wait. Maybe indefinitely."

Pausing, he added, "I'll fetch the fucking box."

With that he turned away and headed for the stairs. His steps were soundless except for the clink of his gear. Some small part of Eren's brain processed the fact that he hadn't disarmed—almost as though he 'd been expecting a catch, expecting he would need to leave base in short order. The rush of relief that filled his chest was so overwhelming, so full of warmth, that he almost didn't notice when Levi stopped and spoke again.

"Wait, Eren. Where'd the Titans come from? How in hell did you guess they were about to swarm the outpost?"

Truthfully speaking, Eren wasn't a strategist. He rarely kept up when Armin spilled his schematics, talking quickly, clearly, his hands smoothing plans. They did, however, have one interest in common: the Titan infection and all things related to it.

Eren had known since he was ten years old that Titans required two things to live. The first was flesh—the second, light. At night, without sunlight, the Titans grew sluggish; in the day, when they hunted, their hunger controlled them. Crouching sore-legged on the roof of the outpost—straps on his shoulders, blades on his hips—he'd whispered the mantra in deep-seated hope. Flesh and light. Flesh and light. Beacons that attracted the Titans like moths.

"Armin called it a Molotov cocktail."

Levi groaned again and stalked down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

They wrapped up the body and brought it to camp. Both of these tasks were assigned to Mike's squad, who carried them out without question or complaint . The corpse, he decided, would need to be mauled—made to look like Carraway had died with the rest of the convoy, not at the blade of an unknown assailant. Not in a way that could implicate Levi, regardless of whether he was actually involved.

He trusted Mike's men to be careful and silent. And for once in his life, he could trust Nile Dawk. News of the failure would not reach Utopia—not before Nile attempted a recovery.  As soon as night fell, the MP would move: relying on darkness to disable the Titans, training their sight, like so many hawks, on the point where the convoy had made its last contact. If news reached the king—if news reached the king...

"You're plotting again," said Mike, his eyes narrowed. "Do I need to get Nana out here with a stick?"

"I'm sure that she's happy with Carraway, Mike. That reminds me, though. I have to write the letter."

"Well," Mike replied, a little bit bullish, "you're clearly not thinking about your calligraphy."

There was a flicker of light from inside the first tent. The sun was just setting, and the Hermiha encampment had retreated to cook up an early half-supper. As he watched, a lean figure poked its head from the doorflap. Nanaba, arms gloved, sent a thumbs up at Mike, who nodded back at her with comical pride.

"Would your squad be available for a jaunt tonight?"

"You've already got them burying your bodies." Then, as if catching himself: "What _kind_ of jaunt, Erwin?"

"Direct insubordination bordering on treason."

If he gained nothing else through this lunatic's venture, at least he had thickened his hide for hard looks.

"Guess I did ask," said Mike when this failed. He straightened his shoulders as Nanaba withdrew, dimming her light as she entered the tent. "And to what end are we risking our unworthy skins? What are we looking for? What do you want?"

"Answers," said Erwin, and went to fetch his pen.


End file.
